Nosferatu
by Burked
Summary: G/S A decidedly different kind of killer is stalking the streets of Las Vegas, and he has his eye on Sara.


**Title:               Nosferatu**

**Author:           Burked**

**Disclaimer:**     Watch an episode to see who CSI belongs to.  Not me, though I love and respect it much more than the owners do.  I write for love, not for money.

**Spoilers:         Little references here and there. **

**Rating:            PG-13 for a few instances of colorful language**

**Summary:       A decidedly different kind of killer is stalking the streets of Las Vegas, and he has his eye on Sara**

**A/N:                **Many thanks to Duckfeat and Mossley.  Your honesty helped me tremendously!  Don't blame any typos on them.  I made revisions after they read it.

"Nos-fe-ra-tu?" Catherine sounded out.  "What language is that?" she mused, examining the words writ large on the brick building that the body was propped against.

"It's Slavic, derived from the Greek word _nosophoros_, which means 'plague carrier'."  Sara answered.  "But it is used to refer to 'the Undead', or vampires," she elaborated.

"Scared of you!" Catherine said.  

"I like horror movies," Sara explained, with a shrug.

"Well, this looks like a horror movie in the making," Catherine said, bending down to peer into the sallow face of a teenaged girl who appeared to be around fifteen or sixteen.

A gaping tear curved about three inches, marring her throat.  They couldn't touch her yet, since no one had arrived from the coroner's office, though they had been repeatedly assured that someone would be there shortly.

The alley was dank and smelled of week-old trash in dumpster bins and blood – the smell of blood is unique and changes as it degrades.  This was fresh blood, giving off a coppery scent that was much less unpleasant than the rotten-meat smell of old blood.  Sara knew several CSIs who claimed they like the smell of fresh blood, though she thought it was a psychological reaction to make the blood's presence less disturbing.

The area around the body looked as if it had been cleaned somewhat.  Sara wondered whether the killer chose the cleaner spot to dump her or cleaned it himself.  There had to be some significance to the placement of the body, considering the surroundings.

"Do not even tell me that's written in blood," Sara said, taking out a swab to test her theory.  A drop of phenolphthalein, a drop of hydrogen peroxide, then the bright red swab tip confirmed the presence of blood.  It could be any type of blood, though.  She touched the swab to the sample area on the precipitin test strip.  "Catherine, it's human," Sara confirmed.

"Probably the vic's," Catherine noted, as Sara pulled the 35mm camera out of the bag and began shooting the scene from around the 180 degrees she had to work with.  

"You know, we should call Grissom," Sara warned.  "This case has 'signature killer' written all over it."

"One case hardly qualifies as a serial, but you're probably right.  Better safe than sorry," Catherine conceded, pulling out her cell phone.

"Grissom?  Catherine.  Listen, I think you should come down here.  Sara thinks it might be the work of a signature killer, so she wants you to take a look.  Later," she said, flipping the phone closed.

"He's on his way."

* * * * *

An unmarked police car carrying Detective Captain Brass and a Yukon carrying Gil Grissom arrived almost simultaneously, effectively blocking the alleyway from either direction.

"Ah, geez," Brass moaned, walking up to the body.  "She's just a kid!"

"Nosferatu ... the Undead," Grissom defined for Brass as the two men stopped to stare at the printing on the wall.

"Well, considering that she's very dead, I assume that refers to the killer," Brass stated.

"Probably a safe assumption," Grissom agreed.  "Has the coroner pronounced?" he asked over his shoulder towards the two women.

"Nope," Catherine huffed in frustration.  "No one's gotten here yet."

Brass took the cue and called the coroner's office to find out what the hold up was.  He was told that David was tied up at another scene.  Brass explained as calmly as he could that he wanted someone at their location in fifteen minutes or less.  He didn't need to add the "or else."  His tense, overly polite tone let the party on the other end of the conversation know that he was holding back hell and it wouldn't last long.

Grissom stood over the body, brows furrowed in thought.  "You know, this treatment of the body isn't typical for a serial killer," he said to no one in particular.

"What do you mean?" Catherine asked.

"Look how he's laid her out straight, placing her hands on her chest and closing her eyes, as if for a funeral."

"And did you notice that the dump site is cleaner than the rest of the alley?" Sara asked Grissom.

"What's significant about all of that?" Catherine followed up.

Sara jumped in, highjacking his thoughts.  "Most serial killers are primarily motivated by anger, so they degrade or defile the body in some way.  They don't show this much ... respect," Sara searched for the word.

"Exactly," Grissom nodded.

"Maybe he was remorseful," Brass offered.

"Normally, the serial killer who feels guilt after the crime turns the body away from himself, or covers it, to keep the victim's eyes from 'accusing' him.  Instead, this killer took some time to arrange the body in the most dignified pose possible, under the circumstances," Grissom explained.

Thirteen minutes later Dr. Albert Robbins arrived.  It took him another minute to disentangle himself, gather his cane and his field kit and make his way to the body.  "You know, I don't usually make house calls," he said, approaching the small group gathered around the girl.

"I can't easily get down to her level, and I would have a hell of a time getting back up, but I think it's safe to say from here that she's dead," Robbins exhaled.  "Bled out from the carotid artery, from the looks of it.  Sara, you're the closest person with gloves on.  Just for the record, would you feel for a pulse, please?"

Sara bent down and put her fingers on the victim's throat, opposite from the gash.  "No pulse," she said.

"No shit," Catherine mumbled.

"Doc, wouldn't you expect arterial spray with that kind of injury?  All I see is pooling," Grissom noted.

"Yes, I would expect spray for several feet around the body," he concurred.

"Maybe she was killed somewhere else and dumped here," Catherine suggested.

"Maybe," Doc Robbins agreed tentatively.  "Roll her over and let's have a look at the lividity pattern on her."

Sara pulled the girl's body gently over on its side and eased up her shirt to reveal the purple bruise-like patterns where the blood in her body sought to satisfy gravity now that it was no longer moving.  There was a purplish-red stain appearing on her back, punctuated by white spaces where her body weight pressed directly against the pavement.

"Doesn't look like she was moved," Robbins said, looking up apologetically at Catherine.

Taking the digital thermometer from his bag, he instructed Sara to push it a few inches into her abdomen, just below the ribs on her left side.  Sara involuntarily winced as she inserted it, then read the temperature aloud, "94.8 degrees."

"She's been dead around three hours," Robbins noted.  "David will come with the van when he's free.  I'll tell you more when I get her on the table," he said, turning to walk away.  He sat in his car and filled out the preliminary report before leaving, noting the pronounced time of death for the latest Jane Doe.

* * * * *

The girl's fingerprints yielded no match, which was not surprising at her age, but within a few hours a frantic phone call to the police department told them the probable identity of the victim, fifteen-year-old Amy Grove.  At the coroner's office, her mother later verified that the image on the monitor, sheet pulled well up to her chin, was indeed her daughter.  

She had left her house at 5:30 that evening to go to her fast-food job.  At seven o'clock, one hour after she was due to start her shift, her manager called to see why she wasn't there yet.  Her mother had spent the last several hours calling everyone she knew and looking for her at her friends' houses and all her favorite hang-outs.  By midnight, she knew something was seriously wrong.  Her daughter had never been irresponsible, nor had she ever been in trouble at school or with the law.  

Warrick and Nick were assigned to accompany the uniformed officers who were to canvass the neighborhood as the sun was rising.  Both men were more than willing to work a double-shift to try to find anyone who may have seen Amy alive.  Their search was fruitless.

Catherine searched all the law enforcement databases for any reference to Nosferatu, but got no hits.  She searched on the M.O., but it was too non-specific at this point to yield any relevant information.  

Grissom assigned Sara to build a victim profile of Amy.  If Nosferatu were indeed going to develop into a signature killer, it would be imperative to know how he or she chose the victim.  

Grissom began to catalogue every aspect of the crime that they knew, even if it didn't qualify as evidence.  With only one murder to go on, he wouldn't know what would be part of the signature and what would be happenstance.  He would add in the facts from Sara's profile of Amy Grove.  

The only thing Grissom could do now is wait for the next victim, hoping it would never happen, but knowing that it probably would.  He sat in his darkened office, holding his head in his hands.  These types of serial killers are the most challenging, because they tend to have much more intelligence than the average criminal.  They tend to be very aware of the crime scene, arranging it to suit their signature.  It could take several murders before the pattern is clear enough to catch up to his thought processes.  It could take several more to catch him, if they can.  He could disappear as suddenly as he appeared, moving to another location to continue his spree.

* * * * *

"I don't want anyone leaving this building while on duty without a radio and a weapon," Grissom instructed at the beginning of shift.  "And, yes, to answer the looks on all of your faces, that includes me."

"Until we get a handle on this guy, I don't want Catherine or Sara to go out alone," he said, quickly holding up a hand to forestall their protestations.  "I'm not being sexist, I'm being cautious.  This guy has killed a female, and we know that typically signature killers keep with their initial victim gender.  I'm not saying one of the men has to be with you, I just don't want you going out without a partner."

"Remember that signature killers may stay near the scene, much like an arsonist.  Or he may return to relive the act.  Stay very alert, and watch each other's backs."

"The other criminals of Clark County have not seen fit to give us a break," he said, handing out assignment slips to Catherine and Sara.  "Catherine, take Warrick on your home invasion.  Sara, you and Nick head over to the Monaco to handle your burglary.  Everyone keep your radios on.  If another possible victim turns up, I'll call you in on it."

"Who is going to watch _your_ back?" Catherine asked pointedly.

"I'll be in the lab mostly.  If I go out to a scene, I'll make sure there's an officer there.  If it's a DB, I'll call one of you to meet me.  Fair enough?" he asked.

All the heads nodded, each realizing that it wasn't the time for bravado.

* * * * *

Ten days passed without an incident that could remotely be connected to the Nosferatu murder, and the passage of time lulled the team into a false sense that this may have been a one-shot murder, staged to look more ominous in order to deflect suspicion from the real motive.

As they compiled the data for the profiles of victim and perpetrator, Sara and Grissom had been relieved to find out that Amy had not been sexually assaulted.  However, that left them with precious little motive, since she had not been robbed and had no known enemies.  It was starting to look more like a signature killer all the time.

From what little they had to go on, it appeared that Amy Grove was murdered for no other reason than to be murdered.  Surprisingly, she was not assaulted in any other manner, so torture was thankfully not the last chapter of her all-too-brief life.

Amy's last school picture smiled out from the top of a large white board whereon Grissom and Sara listed all known facts about her and Nosferatu's M.O.  It was left standing along the wall in an layout room to remind them that the story of Amy Grove's life and death wouldn't be complete until they knew who had penned the final chapter.

* * * * *

"Sara, is there an officer there with Nick and you?" Grissom asked over the radio.

"Affirmative," she answered.

"Be ready for me to pick you up in ten minutes.  DB," he said over the open air waves, purposefully not giving any specific information.

"10-4," she confirmed, closing up her field kit and gathering up the evidence she had collected to put with Nick's.  

"You be careful, Nicky," she warned.

"I will, Sara," he nodded, then looked around to determine the exact location of the officer in charge of securing the scene.  Satisfied, he returned to his work.

Sara waited in front of the house by the curb, so that all Grissom would have to do is pull up.  He arrived on schedule and she heard the doors unlock as he came to a halt with the passenger door directly in front of her.  As soon as she was in and buckled up, Grissom gunned the engine and the SUV took off.  Sara was surprised;  though she normally drove this way, Grissom was typically a much more conservative driver.

After a moment, he began to speak tensely, "Sara, why were you waiting alone outside in the dark?"

"I was just out there a few minutes, Grissom.  There was an officer right inside the house, and I've got my weapon," she said, defending an action that she had to admit she had done without giving any thought to it at all.

"I want you to start being more careful, Sara.  I mean it.  You take too many risks," he said heavily.

"I can take care of myself, Grissom.  I go to the range to practice and I always qualify with good scores in marksmanship.  I've studied unarmed combat.  And I'm tall for a woman.  I can protect myself," she said with a touch of defensiveness.

"I know," he sighed out.  "I just don't want anything to happen to you ... to any of you," he added quickly.

Grissom sometimes wished that Sara weren't so headstrong, independent and argumentative.  He didn't want to explain why;  he just wanted her to be more careful.

But then, he reminded himself, if she weren't like that, she wouldn't be Sara.  He had fantasized about how fulfilling it would be to be needed by this woman who didn't appear to need anybody.

"Where are we going?" she asked, interrupting his reverie.

"The university.  Nineteen-year-old Stefanie Potts was found dead between two dormitories," he explained, pulling off Tropicana into the parking lot flanked by residence halls on one side and a pavilion on the other.

"Nosferatu?" she asked.

"Evidently," he answered, pulling the SUV into the slot next to Brass's car.  

Grissom and Sara walked along the row of residences, each feeling the familiar tug reminding them of their days in the enclave of academia – it seemed so safe and cloistered when they were in college.  They followed the stream of light pouring out from between two of the dorms, turning to find a crowd of students, some stunned and some hysterical, surrounding the taped-off area.  

Harsh lights were set up at each corner, trained on Stefanie, driving out the night.  They illuminated a scene that looked like it should have been in a funeral home instead of on a lawn.  As with the victim before her, this victim was laid out with her legs discreetly together, her hands on her chest, and eyes closed.

This time, David was already there and had completed his preliminary examination, allowing the forensics team immediate access to the body.  

"TOD was approximately two hours ago," David recited as soon as the pair crossed the tape.  Preliminary cause of death is exsanguination."

Grissom and Sara knelt down on either side of David, who was positioned at her head.  He tilted her head over to expose the gaping wound at her throat.  "I think we should be able to get some good impressions this time.  Look at the dentation marks at this edge of the wound," he instructed, pointing.  Laying the flap of loose tissue back in place, the outline of a row of teeth became evident.

"Livor mortis?" Grissom asked, rolling her over to check the lividity pattern.

"It's begun, and she doesn't appear to have been moved."

"This isn't enough blood, David," Grissom noted.

"She on the lawn.  Some of it could have soaked in," he theorized.

"But it's a pool of blood.  A torn artery should spray.  There should be blood drops all over this taped-off area," he said, looking around the grass for any sign of blood.

David nodded at the incongruity.

"I want her tagged for special handling, David.  Bag her hands and feet.  Turn her clothes inside out before bagging them.  Swab the wound for DNA.  I want every inch of her examined for trace.  Got that?"

"Yes, sir," he said, involuntarily gulping.  

Brass approached and said, "No 'Nosferatu' written anywhere."

"Didn't have to," Grissom replied.  "He or she already told us the name with the first victim.  We are expected to recognize the handiwork from now on."

Sara had begun taking pictures from every angle.  Without making it obvious, she occasionally snapped shots that included the crowd behind them on every side ... just in case.  What would the Undead look like?

* * * * *

Sara stood in front of the white board, dry erase marker in hand.  She put up a column for Stefanie next to Amy's column, listing her characteristics.

Stepping back, Sara scanned the two lists, seeing very little in common.  One was in high school; the other in college.  Still, they were in the same general age range, so Sara left age as a possible victim profile characteristic.  

One had strawberry blond hair;  the other was brunette.  Hair color was out.  

Amy had blue eyes;  Stefanie had brown.  Eye color, out. 

Amy was 5'3" tall;  Stefanie was 5'9" tall.  Height, out.

Amy was cute, in a teenage way;  Stefanie wasn't wholly unfortunate-looking, but she was not attractive by any stretch of the imagination.  Attractiveness, out.

Both were female;  both were Caucasian.  

So far, Sara's victim profile consisted of only three common characteristics:  young, white females.  

She walked over the Nosferatu's board and wrote "male" and "Caucasian" under the name.

Grissom was leaning against the doorframe, watching Sara as she scanned each board, making additions and deletions, then standing back to study them.

"Not much to go on, is there?" he asked, startling her.

"Damn, Grissom!  You scared the shit out of me!" she gasped, clutching at her chest.

"Sorry," he shrugged, pushing himself vertical and walking in to stand next to her, reviewing the boards.

"Not that I disagree, but what makes you sure Nosferatu is a male?" he asked.

"First of all, the vast majority of serial killers are male.  Second, Stefanie was a good-sized girl, and it would take an unusually large or strong female to subdue her without leaving more marks on her body.  Third, I ... I ... Never mind," she said, shaking her head.

"What were you going to say?" Grissom prodded.

"Nothing.  It wasn't scientific," she said and smiled apologetically.

"But it was important enough for you to take into consideration while building your profile.  I'd like to know your third reason," he pressed.

"It's just a feeling I got when I was at the scenes.  I just feel like it's a man."

She glanced sideways at him for a second to gauge his reaction, but he was as impassive as usual.

"I know, it's silly.  Completely without scientific merit," she mumbled, embarrassment beginning to paint her light cheeks a rose tint.

"Sara, profiling isn't a science.  Since it deals with the psychological, sometimes we have to go with what our instincts tell us.  If your gut tells you this is a male, then it probably is," he said definitively.  "I just wanted to make sure you weren't just going with the odds."

"I think I've aptly demonstrated that I am not one to go with the odds, Grissom," she said, paying him back for at least one of the myriad of double entendres he had so frequently served up to her.

Grissom looked at her without comment, until it was well past uncomfortable for her to maintain the eye contact.  He allowed his head to shift over to the side, indicating his contemplation of her comment.  Able to bear it no longer, she turned back to the board, grateful she had a plausible excuse for breaking free from his gaze.

Finally piercing the viscous silence, Grissom told her, "If you are done here for now, hook up with Warrick on his case.  He's at the Tangiers, room 311.  The guest in an adjoining room called in a domestic disturbance.  It might be helpful to have a woman there," he said, justifying his decision to have two CSIs on a case that probably would not take very long for one to wrap up.

"Ooo-kaaay," she drawled, hesitantly.  "And I'm supposed to do what when I get there?  I mean, these people don't even live here.  We're going to go through the motions, the guy will get a stern talking to, and they will go home." she rebutted.

"We don't make those decisions.  We collect and analyze evidence relating to crimes.  Last time I checked, spousal abuse was still a crime in Nevada," he shot back, turning on his heel to leave.

What had started as a comfortable encounter, focusing on the task instead of on their personal interaction, had quickly become tense and unsettled, as was often the case the past few months.  Grissom had hoped that they could return to a more normative working relationship now that each of them had taken a stab at a relationship with outsiders to divert them from their fixation with one another.  But the fact that both of their new relationships failed increased the tension rather than relieved it.

He was wasting Sara's time on the abuse case, and he knew it.  She knew that he knew it.  She was contrite about speaking to him as she had, but one thing she hated doing was wasting time.  She did not want to be distracted from the Nosferatu murders, since much of profiling required trying to get into a mindset where one could see what the killer saw when he first spied a victim, and feel what he felt when he took her life.

* * * * *

With crimes such as these, it was easy to get carried away searching for clues instead of searching for evidence, and Sara realized that she had made a mistake at the first scene.  Apparently, everyone else also overlooked it, since no one had mentioned it in the almost two weeks since it occurred.  Now, it might be too late.  Evidence can be persistent, but it can also be time-sensitive, a paradox that has to be kept in mind.

She instinctively felt her side to ensure she was carrying her firearm.  Often, in the building, she and the other CSIs removed them.  Satisfied, she grabbed her radio and her kit to go join Warrick.  But first, she had a stop to make on the way.

Turning into the alleyway, she was relieved to see that the remoteness of the scene had played into her favor.  No one had washed away the message in blood.  Being late summer, it had not rained in over a month, a blessing for criminalists, especially this one.  The wall faced north, so it was not exposed to direct sunlight during any part of the day, so it was likely that the wall did not heat up sufficiently to destroy the evidence she had forgotten to collect.

She mentally beat herself up for her omission.  She had tested the writing for the presence of human blood, but then allowed herself to get sidetracked.  To establish that the blood indeed belonged to the victim, she needed to take samples for Greg to compare to the victim.  

But, perhaps more important, it was possible that the killer used his finger to apply the blood.  As he scraped across the rough brick, he likely left epithelials if he were not wearing gloves.  And, even if he were, such a rough surface could have breached the thin latex.

She took multiple scrapings from each letter of the name, not wanting to make the same mistake twice.  It was dangerous to miss anything when it came to a serial killer.  She labeled the bags and shoved them in a zippered pocket of her vest, where they couldn't fall out.  Feeling the burden of guilt lifting, she smiled and made her way back to the SUV to join up with Warrick.  She knew that she probably wouldn't have to put much thought or effort into Warrick's case, so she would be free to think about Nosferatu.

* * * * *

Abuse cases always stirred up a multiplicity of emotions in Sara, some that the others who worked with her probably never suspected.  Yes, she would almost always become disgusted and angry that a man would take advantage of his superior strength and beat a woman over what was likely an unimportant disagreement.  Short of protecting a life, she couldn't _rationally_ fathom why anyone would purposefully inflict pain on someone, especially someone they ostensibly loved.

However, there was another emotion that would occasionally surface to her conscious-ness, but she would fight to push it back down.  She would certainly never let anyone else see it, because it seemed so contradictory, so hypocritical.  That emotion was fear.  Not fear that a man would abuse her, because she had vowed long ago that she would never allow herself to be victimized that way, and she prepared herself to be able to defend against it.

No, the fear she felt was that she, too, sometimes had to struggle to control the effects of her own anger.  What moral high ground could she claim over Scott Shelton, she had asked herself on many occasions, when she was perfectly willing to physically fight him when he angered her?  How many times had she fought the urge to hit someone who had pushed her to fury?  

Though it was often socially tolerated for a woman to slap a man, she knew it was still abusive, still stemming from the same primal instinct to physically hurt the other.  She could think of several occasions when she wanted to slap the ever-loving shit out of a suspect, or even Grissom, more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.  She would have to suddenly retreat in order to regain control over her emotions.  She understood all too well that the abuser is often not rational at the time.

She could not imagine a scenario where Grissom would ever be _physically_ abusive.  So, it was all the more disturbing to her that she could imagine purposefully striking him, normally when he was engaging in what she considered emotional abuse.

* * * * *

Logging in at the door, Sara made her way to Warrick, shrugging and shaking her head to indicate that she had no clue why she had been sent.  He smiled knowingly and shrugged back.  "I'm pretty much all done here, Sara.  Your timing is right on the money," he laughed.

"I still also get credit for the solve, right?" she asked, in mock-innocence.

"Picture that!" he snorted, escorting her out of the door and down the hall towards the elevators.  "Had dinner?" he asked.

"I don't even remember if I had breakfast or lunch," she mused.

"Meet me at the diner, OK?  I'm buying," he beamed.

"You're on," Sara agreed, pointing a finger at him as she turned into the elevator.

When she pulled into the diner parking lot, she radioed Dispatch to let them know that she and Warrick were on dinner break.  Monitoring their radio transmissions, Grissom sat in his office, wondering why it was so easy for everyone else to simply have dinner with each other without letting it swell into an ethical dilemma.  

He had gone out to eat with Warrick before, and Nick as well.  He had eaten alone with Catherine numerous times, both out in public and at their respective homes.  It never required any soul-searching.  How much easier would this all be if he were just one of them, like Nick or Warrick?  No one would think a thing about them going out for dinner.  But he had never eaten alone with Sara – only in a group.  He reminded himself that there is safety in numbers.

If she had just said that morning, "I'm hungry.  Let's finish talking about this over dinner," then he might have considered it to be a theoretically harmless diversion.  But "Let's see what happens" set his moral compass spinning, and he had to admit that he didn't have a clue what to do.  As it was, he had to stop and gather the courage to tell her that, but at least he did it.  

It wasn't what he wanted to say, and it wasn't what she wanted to hear, but it was the God's honest truth for once.  

* * * * *

The next night, Greg paged Sara that the DNA sample taken from Stefanie's throat was processed.   CODIS did not turn up any matches, but that wasn't surprising considering that VICAP also had no instances of this signature.  There was something unusual about the DNA, but he couldn't tell her much at this point.  He told her that he would let her know when the sample from the wall was ready to match against the first sample.

Grissom entered the DNA/Chem Lab shortly after Sara had left, and Greg reiterated his findings.  Grissom was visibly perplexed and asked to see the blood samples from the wall.  Greg handed him one of the bags, not quite sure why there was any confusion.  

Grissom read the case information on the front of the plastic bag.  The date and time were noted as last night at 2:25 a.m.  The initials of the collector were 'S.S.'  Grissom slammed the bag down on the counter and left abruptly, with Greg feeling like he must have awakened in an parallel universe, since nothing was making any sense.  

Grissom walked quickly to his office and shut the door, practically throwing himself down into his chair.  "Breathe, breathe," he said aloud, trying to calm himself before he spoke to her.  He picked up the phone and paged her to come to his office – 'urgent' was tacked on for good measure.  

Working in the evidence examination room, Sara looked down at her pager, reading Grissom's message.  "Busted," she said aloud, exhaling loudly.  She had not purposefully disobeyed him.  She honestly had not given it one iota of thought.  She had a job to do and she did it.  End of story.  Unfortunately, Grissom was going to add a postscript.

She trudged towards his office like a recalcitrant student towards the principal's office.  She knew she had to go, but she had to force herself to take each step of the trek.

Knocking on the door, she tried to be cheery and stuck her head in.  "You wanted to see me?" she asked brightly.

"Come in and shut the door," he answered tersely, his eyes a steely gray in the lamp light.

"Grissom, I'm sorry!  I just ..."

Holding up a hand, he interrupted her.  "I don't want to hear any of your excuses.  I don't want any explanations.  There are no reasons that justify the gross negligence of your actions."

"We needed that evidence," she said sternly.

"Was the entire LVPD not available?  Was there not a soul from the Crime Lab you could call?  I know for a fact that I was sitting right here in my office.  There's no excuse, Sara.  None."

"I was on my way to meet up with Warrick when I thought of it," she lied.

"Do you have a radio?  Do you have a cell phone?" he countered.

"Yes," she hissed lowly, defeated.  

"Sara, don't you remember how it was that you came to be here?  Don't you remember how devastated we all were over what happened to Holly Gribbs?  And we had only known her a few hours, for God's sake!  Can you even _imagine_ how we would feel if it were _you_?"

"Yes, I can imagine how I would feel if it were _you_," she answered in a broken whisper, not at the moment realizing or caring if it was too revealing.

"Well, you aren't the only one with feelings, Sara," he retorted.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, this time contritely.

"I've told you before that you take too many risks.  If you don't care enough about yourself to be careful, do you care enough about the rest of us to not put us through that?" he asked, trying to sound authoritative, but his voice wavering at the end.

"Yes, I care.  I didn't do it on purpose.  Please believe me," she said, pleadingly.

"That's what scares me the most," he said quietly.  "How can I believe you won't put yourself in danger again, without realizing it?"

Sara thought about his question, realizing that it wasn't simply rhetorical.  If she couldn't find a way to assure Grissom that she would be safe, she would be confined to the lab.  "You can partner me with someone until it's over.  I promise I won't go anywhere without my partner," she vowed.

"Okay, fair enough," he said.  "Warrick has gone back out.  He's with Vega," he quickly added, sensing her bristling at the thought of Warrick getting more slack than she did.  "I'll be your partner tonight.  I don't want you to leave this building until 7:00 a.m. without me being with you.  Understood?"

"Understood," she said.  "May I be excused now?" she asked deferentially.

"Yes," he answered, glad that the confrontation was over.  He needed some alone time to decompress from the oppressive fear and anger that had overwhelmed him since he realized she had returned to the scene alone.

* * * * *

Sara had taped up all the pictures from the two scenes and reviewing them to ensure that they had not missed anything.  She looked closely at the crowd shots from the university, hoping that she would recognize the face of pure evil somewhere in the throng, but they all looked like shocked, scared college students.

Her stomach began to rumble and ache a bit, but she ignored it as usual.  Just then, the thought struck her.  "How freaking hilarious is this?" she said aloud, bursting out in a belly laugh.  "This could be fun," she said, bolting out of the lab to find Grissom.

She caught up with him in the Trace Lab, checking to see if Hodges had found anything on the two victims' clothes.  She waited discreetly by the door, falling in step with him as he left.  

"Grissom," she said seriously, "I need to eat."

"And?" he asked, not sure why she was sharing this with him.

"I didn't bring my lunch, since I've usually been eating out with whomever I've been working with the past few weeks.  I need to go out to get something to eat.  I haven't eaten since last night," she added, scrunching her face up into an innocent 'I'm sorry' look.  

Grissom stopped and rubbed his forehead for a moment, deciding which was the lesser of the two evils:  letting her go by herself and having to retract his earlier demand, or going out to eat with her alone.  On the one hand, it should be safe for her to go directly to a restaurant, then return.  But one the other hand, once she was out of his sight, he had no control over her, nor apparently did she have control over herself.

She had eaten every night the past two weeks in the company of one of the other CSIs, and he willed himself to pretend he was just another CSI.  He could do this.  It wasn't a date, after all – just lunch, or what passes for lunch at 2:00 a.m.

"Okay," he agreed.  "Where do you want to go?"

Sara was proud of herself for maintaining her composure.  She had fully expected him to make an exception and allow her to leave his sight to go eat.  She would have bet money on it.

"Any place that serves salad will be fine," she offered.

"Let's go," he said, resignation in his voice.

* * * * *

Sara was pleasantly surprised that he took her to a vegan restaurant on Sandhill Road.  It wasn't all that far from the lab, and it wasn't a complete tourist trap.  They served vegetarian and vegan dishes and absolutely no meat.  She was curious as to what Grissom was going to find to eat there.

Grissom ordered a salad and spring rolls, eschewing the mock-meat dishes – he liked his meat real.  Sara chuckled and held up two fingers to order the same.

"This is a pleasant surprise," she said.  "I've been wanting to try this place out, but none of the others would come with me," she laughed.

"You could have come by yourself," Grissom suggested.

"I don't like to eat at restaurants alone," she said, with a hint of sadness.  She quickly glossed over it with a smile and said, "Thanks for picking this place."  She thought about the past, when he didn't even realize she was a vegetarian.  Now tonight he's respectful enough to not take her anywhere that serves meat, though he must be aware that the others eat meat around her all the time.  She sensed that it was an apology of sorts, more apropos than the plant, if not as timely.

Grissom made small talk until the food arrived, asking Sara if she planned to take a vacation this year.  She usually took her vacation time a day here and a day there, instead of an entire week or two, spent relaxing somewhere else.  When she said that she hadn't given it any thought, he reminded her that she was soon going to be at the limit of how much time she could accrue.  

"I guess it really doesn't matter to me if I stop accruing vacation time," she said honestly.  "What am I going to do with the five weeks I've got on the books now?  I don't mind visiting my friends and relatives for a couple of days, but I'd kill myself if I had to be around my folks for a week or more!" she laughed.  "And I sure don't want to take off two weeks and lie around my apartment.  The boredom alone would send me over the edge."

"You could travel.  Take a trip somewhere interesting," Grissom suggested.

"I don't like to travel alone," she answered.

"For such a loner, Sara, you don't like to do very many things by yourself," Grissom laughed.

"I never said I was a loner.  I may be independent, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy the company of others," she explained.

They had just finished their salads and were debating whether to have dessert when Grissom's pager went off, startling him with its buzzing vibration and shrill beep.  He pulled it off his belt to read the text message, sighing, "It must be a cosmic rule that I never get to finish a dinner date.  We've got another DB," he said, turning serious, waving for the check.

When did the onerous burden of having to accompany her to eat become a 'dinner date,' she wondered?  Phasing back into reality, she told Grissom, "I'll get the check;  you get the Tahoe.  I'll meet you out front.  Don't worry, I'll stay inside until you pull up," she promised.  "Be careful," she admonished.  He smiled and nodded his agreement, then weaved his way through the tables, directing the waiter to give the check to Sara on his way out.

* * * * *

Were it not for the excised chunk of throat and the respectful posing of the victim, Sara and Grissom would not have thought that Carla Jean McMahon was the latest victim of Nosferatu.  She could not possibly be less than forty-five years old.  She had only the slightest of middle-age paunches, like one who had given birth a few times, otherwise looking fairly fit and healthy.  

She was found lying on a park bench, hands crossed and eyes closed, just like the other two victims.  The ground was wet and muddy from the sprinklers that had been running until midnight.  Apparently, the killer didn't think it proper to leave her lying in the muck.

"This is starting to get real old, real fast," Brass groaned.  "Do you have _anything_ on this guy?"

"He's a white male, thirty-five to forty-five years old.  We have his DNA, we presume, but nothing to match it to," Grissom answered with a tired voice.

"Anything on the victim profile?" Brass asked, hopefully.

Grissom deferred to Sara.  "Not really.  The only thing we can see that they have in common is that they are white females.  We are still checking for any commonalities in their daily lives, but they come from different backgrounds, different parts of town, and being different ages, they move in different social circles."

"So he's choosing them randomly," Brass concluded.  "Victims of opportunity?"

"No.  I don't think so," Sara opined, drawing interested looks from Grissom and Brass both.  "I just don't know how yet, but I know it's not random," she said quietly, staring at Carla Jean's peacefully reposed body.

* * * * *

Sara was quiet on the drive back to the lab.  Grissom wasn't sure whether he should talk to her or not, so he settled on the safe course and left her to her thoughts.  She shook her head as if she were trying to dislodge a thought.  "He's a cold-blooded killer, but he's respectful and courteous to them, both before and after death.  Such a paradox," she said, squinting her eyes at the bright lights along the road.

"It is almost unheard of among serial killers.  After all, they typically kill out of anger.  Even those who think they are 'saving' the victims by killing them often beat or torture them before death, as a ritualistic cleansing of sins," Grissom added.

At the lab, he escorted her to the layout room to begin adding Carla Jean's information to Amy's and Stefanie's.  

"He's either ambushes them suddenly, they know him, or he's not frightening to them," Sara said abruptly.  "There's very little bruising to indicate much of a struggle."

They stood staring at the boards, hoping the answer would offer itself up, but it didn't.

"Grissom, we need to think more about the actual crime.  We know the blood evidence left doesn't fit, so we are missing a piece."

They stood, shoulder to shoulder, before she reached out and absently touched his arm.  "Let's see if we can act out a scenario that doesn't involve much violence prior to the actual kill," she suggested.  "You be Nosferatu.  Looking at the bite marks, what's your position relative to the victim?"

Grissom looked at the photos and shifted his head a little this way, then a little that, trying to approximate the angle.

"Okay, that looks pretty good," Sara said, stopping him.  "Now all the victims had their throats torn, with the lower mandible of the attacker located about midline and the upper on the side, just past the carotid."  

From his cock-eyed viewpoint, Grissom watched in amusement as Sara took a grease pen and drew such a wound on her own throat.  She looked at him to verify its placement, and he agreed.

"Now, considering that the victims were different heights, how do you get that same angle, more or less, every time?" she asked, moving to face him.  Standing only inches apart, she moved her head and neck around to try to match the angle of Nosferatu's bite.

No matter which way she angled herself, she was not able to line up the bite.  She was too high and the bite was more horizontal.  

Several times Grissom had to close his eyes and force himself to remember that this was an experiment.  He kept finding himself distracted as Sara willingly presented her neck to him, over and over.

She moved in closer, putting her throat within centimeters of Grissom's mouth.  She could feel his hot breath on her neck and it made her feel light-headed.  As she shifted to the side to match the angle, leaning her head back, she lost her balance and began to teeter backwards.  

Grissom caught her as she began to fall, and it hit them both at once:  she was now several inches lower and perpendicular to him.  Without thinking, Grissom lowered his mouth to her neck to match the bite angle perfectly, holding his mouth open across her skin for a moment – a moment that seemed like eternity to them both.

"Help me up, Grissom" Sara barely managed to squeak out, her mouth dry and throat feeling tight.  She might have wished to stay that way forever, had her back not screamed curses at the unnatural position, not to mention how it might have looked to passers-by.

He took his lips from her neck and lifted her from what looked like a 'dip'.  Neither could easily shake the feelings that the sudden and violently erotic contact had evoked.  They turned to concentrate on the pictures, struggling valiantly to refocus.

"That's why no struggle to speak of.  They were caught off-balance and he immediately went in for the kill," Grissom said, feeling like his cheeks were glowing from the heat of excitement and embarrassment.

"So we've got the approach.  He's either behind them or to the side, grabs them, tips them off-balance and attacks," she summarized.

"I find it almost impossible to believe that there's no sexual component," Grissom observed, knowing that it had certainly been impossible for him to ignore how arousing the encounter was.

Sara turned and raised an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth at him, sensing that he was speaking from very recent experience.  She noticed that he was apparently working hard to look as stoic and impassive as he normally did, but she could see the small facial muscles tic involuntarily, revealing his tension.

"Nosferatu bites her, tearing the carotid, but there's no arterial spray.  Why not?" Sara asked aloud.

"Because he keeps his lips over the wound until her heart stops pumping," Grissom answered pedantically, trying not to recall the feeling of his lips on Sara's neck.

"But her heart wouldn't stop pumping without significant blood loss," Sara countered.

"He swallowed it," Grissom opined, as though it were a natural outgrowth of the discussion.

"Three or four quarts?" Sara retorted in doubt.

"That would be unlikely," Grissom agreed.  "But he drank some of it, maybe until the shock of the attack and the diversion of the blood from the brain made them pass out.  Then perhaps he collected some.  But not all of it, since we found pooling."

As it was almost an hour past the end of shift, Grissom suggested that they adjourn.  Sara didn't make a move to leave, wanting to ride what she felt was a rising wave of understanding of the dynamics of the cases.  

"You need to rest.  If you're tired, you'll miss something," he said in his defense.  "We'll start fresh tonight," he promised, anxious to leave the room that threatened to overwhelm him with its visceral mix of sex and violence.

* * * * *

"I don't know _what's_ wrong with it," Greg answered defensively, his eyes unable to settle on either Grissom or Sara, so they bounced between the two.

"All I know is that there is _something_ wrong with it," he added in confusion.

Seeing that Grissom was beginning to lose patience, Sara interceded.  "Greg, wrong in what way?  Can you just tell us why you think something's wrong?"

"There are the right number of chromosomes for a human, but there are enzyme markers that are just not right.  I've looked everywhere, I've e-mailed people I know.  No one recognizes some of these markers."

"Well, DNA analysis is still a relatively new process," Sara said, defending the lack of knowledge.

"Not _that_ new," Greg disagreed.  "We've put hundreds of thousands of DNA patterns in the databases.  We've mapped the genome.  Surely someone would have seen this before.  If they had, they would have written it up.  Sara, this is freaking weird," Greg said in a low voice.

"Well, at least it will be airtight in court!" Sara said, smiling at him and reaching over to pat his shoulder.

Not wanting Grissom to challenge Greg, knowing that he would already try his damnedest to find the answer, Sara asked Grissom to join her in the layout room to go over the profiles.  They had been working twelve straight hours, and it was nearly lunchtime in the world of the Daywalkers, but she wasn't nearly ready to call it a day.

Looking at the boards, Grissom said, "The number of similarities is getting smaller, instead of larger.  It's regressing."

Sara thought for a moment, then mused, "Maybe we're looking at this all wrong.  Maybe it's not something they _are_ that's the key, but something they _aren't_."

"They aren't a lot of things, Sara," Grissom countered tiredly.

"I know, I know," she agreed.  "But let's look at some of the more obvious things before we decide to give up this line of reasoning.  Let's see, they aren't men.  They aren't small children.  They aren't old," she began.

"They aren't married – the last victim was, but she was widowed.  The other two never were.  They aren't homeless.  They aren't sick," Grissom added.

"I think I may be starting to get a mental picture, Grissom," Sara ventured.

"Tell me," he prodded.

"He chooses women because they are easier to kill quickly.  And these victims are safe.  It's about the blood.  He wants the blood, for whatever reason.  Certainly he exposes himself to it, possibly even ingests some of it.  It's critical that he feel relatively assured that the people he chooses don't have a bloodborne pathogen, and these women are in the lowest risk groups."

"How would he know that?  Just because they _look_ healthy doesn't mean they are," Grissom said doubtfully.

"He knows somehow," she mused, tapping a finger to her lips in thought.  "I've got an idea," she said suddenly, and she nearly bowled him over pushing past him out of the room.  Grissom stood for a moment trying to mentally catch up, but decided it would be faster to follow her.

She plopped down heavily in her chair and pulled out the worn, dog-eared yellow pages, thumbing through quickly to the blood banks.  Grissom watched from over her shoulder, his thoughts beginning to get up to speed with her own.

"You think they've given blood lately?" he asked.

"Either that, or had a physical exam lately," she answered almost breathlessly.  "I'm going to check the blood banks.  It might save us some time if you check to see who their doctors were, while I'm doing this," she suggested.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, with a grin, heading off to his office to contact the next-of-kin to get information regarding their doctors.  Sara always reminded him of a bloodhound, both impatient and infinitely determined, a seeming paradox.  She had picked up the scent now, and there would be no stopping her.

The thought was energizing to him, but then he felt a growing unease.  He would have to watch her carefully.  She had held to her promise to be more careful, but he had little faith that she would even remember the promise once she smelled blood.

Grissom contacted the next-of-kin of each of the three victims, but couldn't find any correlation between their doctors, any hospitals that administered tests, or any medical procedure that would have required any blood test.  

He stood up slowly, feeling the stiffness that had settled into his joints as he sat immobile after too many hours at work.  Times like these made him feel old.  Exhaling deeply, he decided to see where Sara was at with her blood bank calls, and tell her that they needed to call it a day.  They would have precious little time to rest before it would be time to return to work.

He scanned her office, but all he saw was the yellow pages, still lying open on her workstation.  He made a pass through the halls, peeking into each lab and the break room, then heading for the locker room.  Finding it empty, he began to feel the dread creep back up.  He had lost track of her again.

He snatched up his cell phone and pressed the speed dial button programmed with her cell phone number.  After three rings, she picked up.

"Sara, where are you?" he blurted out, unceremoniously.

"I'm at the blood bank on Rainbow," she said calmly.  "And, hello to you, too."

"Who is with you?" he asked gruffly.

"No one.  I'm not at a crime scene, Grissom.  I'm in a public place in broad daylight, for God's sake," she answered, a bit more defensively than she would have liked.

"That is not the agreement we had," he countered, brusquely.

"Fine.  Grab a warrant for the employee and volunteer list and come down here then," she said shortly.

"What did you find?" he asked.  "They aren't just going to hand me a warrant."

"All three women have recently donated blood here.  That much I could get.  But they can't or won't give me the list of employees or volunteers without a warrant."

"Come back here until I get the warrant," he ordered.

"I'm already here, Grissom," she snapped.  "I see no reason to drive all the way back to the lab to wait for you.  There are plenty of people here," she assured him, hitting the end button to cut off any response.

"Damn it, Sara!" Grissom cursed, pressing in Brass's number to get him working on the warrant.  He wasn't going to wait.

* * * * *

The director of the blood bank had been very cooperative, but she was sensitive to her employees and would not divulge any information without a warrant.  However, she gave Sara free rein to speak with whomever would speak with her, and access into any part of the office she wished to inspect.  Her only stipulation was that her employees and clients were to be treated with courtesy, not as suspects.

Recognizing that many of the workers were volunteers and the others were hardly well-paid, Sara forced herself to make the mental shift that is the difference between witnesses and suspects.  After all, most or all of these people were giving what they had to give to society, asking for little or nothing in return.

She scanned the office looking for males first;  there were three that she could see.  Only one was as big as Grissom;  the other two were relatively short and thin.  However, Sara knew not to discount them, since a 145-pound man was still very much stronger than a 145-pound woman.

Looking at the nameplates, Sara made her choice, deciding to speak with the larger male first.  She approached him gingerly, asking, "May I have a word with you?" and smiling.  "My name is Sara Sidle.  I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Of course," he answered, with a slight accent.  He rose and swept his right hand towards the chair next to his desk.  After she sat down, he resumed his seat.  

"Your name is Nikolai ..."

"Comenescu," he completed for her.  "It's Romanian," he answered, to her unspoken question.

"Were you born there?" she asked innocently.

"Yes," he answered.  "But I've lived all over the world.  I have only recently arrived in your city."

Pulling out the antemortem photographs of the victims, Sara laid them out on his desk.  "Have you ever seen any of these women?" she asked evenly, studying his eyes for recognition.  She saw nothing but their dark brown, almost black depths.

"I see lots of people every day.  It is hard to remember specific people," he shrugged.

"Mr. Comenescu ..."

"Please, call me Nikolai.  It's easier."

"Nikolai, have you ever heard of Nosferatu?" she asked.

"Of course.  It is the legend of the Undead.  Vampires," he answered, without elaboration.

"Tell me about them," she asked, leaning forward in her chair, giving him her undivided attention.

"The myth?  Legend has it that they are shape-shifters who consume human blood.  They are supposedly repelled by garlic and Christian symbols.  They supposedly can be killed easily by beheading.  The other methods most people hear about are from Hollywood, not Eastern Europe," he laughed.

"Why do they consume human blood?" she asked, leaning forward in interest.

"Because that's what they eat," he answered simply.  "They are not the same as other people.  Other people eat the flesh and blood of animals.  Nosferatu eat the blood of humans;  they are human, and yet they are not entirely human.  They cannot help what they are, or what they must do to survive."

"I don't eat animals," she couldn't help but retort.

"Yes, but you still must kill to eat, do you not?" he countered.  "Besides, you can digest both plants and animals.  Nosferatu cannot.  They can only digest blood.  In a desperate situation, it can be animal blood, but it is not the same and Nosferatu cannot survive long on it."

"Do Nosferatu have special powers or attributes that average humans do not?" she asked.

"No," he answered simply.  "I don't believe so, or there would be only Nosferatu left on Earth ... if they exist at all," he added quickly.

"That would be counterproductive.  It is a poor parasite that drives its host to extinction," she retorted.

"Indeed.  I suppose you are right.  I've never given it that much thought," he said casually.  "I certainly never considered them to be parasites."

"How would one recognize one of the Nosferatu?" she asked.

"I don't know.  I suppose that people depended on banes and religious symbols to identify them and to keep them at bay.  I don't know how they are different," he answered.  "This is an interesting discussion, madame, but I am afraid that I do not know much more."

"I only have one more question, Nikolai.  Do you personally think that Nosferatu are evil?" 

"Is the lion evil for hunting the gazelle?  Is the fox evil for eating the chicken?  Are you evil for killing and eating completely defenseless plant life?" he asked in reply.

"They are not human beings," she retorted.

"Forgive me, but that is an elitist argument.  Life is life.  We all kill to eat.  Nowadays many people depend on others to do their killing for them, but the fact remains that something must die in order for something else to live.  It is a fact of nature.  If it is evil, take it up with the Creator," he replied, smiling.

"The Creator commanded, 'Thou shalt not kill'," she responded.

"Actually, the Creator commanded, 'Thou shalt not murder'," he countered.  "It is not murder to compassionately and respectfully dispatch that which you will consume."

An image of the bodies laid out respectfully exploded into Sara's consciousness.

"But this is just my philosophical take on an unproven legend," he said dismissively.

"A legend that exists in almost every culture in the world, regardless of how remote it is," she added.

"Yes, that is a strange coincidence," he agreed, smiling.  "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course," she replied.  "Though I reserve the right to not answer!" she laughed.

"As a member of the Crime Lab, does that mean that you go to crime scenes?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"That must be difficult for you, for anybody," he said, sympathetically.

"Almost always," she agreed.

"You are a beautiful and intelligent woman.  How did you become involved in such a gruesome profession?"

"Thank you," she smiled.  "A teacher of mine got me interested.  He was very dedicated to using science to make society a better, safer place.  I guess I just caught his enthusiasm," she said.  "It's also one of the few professions for a general scientist, so I get to learn more and do more than I would in a specific field."

"A Svengali captured your heart and mind, then," he teased.

"So to speak," she laughed.

* * * * *

Before he had fully breeched the entry, Grissom had pulled off his sunglasses and was visually sweeping the room for her.  Though she was facing the other way, his eyes were drawn to her instantly, leaned over in a very private conversation with someone Grissom assumed to be one of the employees. 

Grissom was relieved that she was all right, but he still was fighting the effects of his anxiety, which he now found to be compounded by more than a hint of jealousy.  The man leaned back and laughed, without his almost-black eyes leaving her eyes.  Grissom saw that he was about Sara's age or just a little older, and handsome by any standards.  His coloring reminded Grissom of Nick, but his body language was distinctly European.  Whoever he was, Sara seemed utterly entranced by him.

Sara felt him enter the room and turned to look for him, piquing Nikolai's curiosity. He wondered what connection these two had, why she could feel the man's presence.  Nikolai looked deeply into Grissom's eyes, reading his emotions instantly.  

"Is that your husband?" Nikolai asked innocently.  "He looks upset."

"My husband?  Hardly!" she scoffed.  "He's my boss," she clarified.  "And he's often upset with me," she confided.

"You have known each other for a very long time, then," he pressed.

"We have been acquainted many years, yes.  I'm not sure you'd say we know each other very well though."  Sara wasn't sure why she was telling this to Nikolai.  She suspected that he had slain and exsanguinated three women, yet she also felt he was charming and empathetic at the same time.  She never once felt that she was in danger.

Sara turned back towards Grissom, who was approaching with a scowl on his face that she knew was reserved for her.  "Did you get the warrant?" she asked, to preempt him.

"No.  Brass will bring it," he answered tensely, his eyes flicking back and forth between the pair.

"We may not need it after all," she retorted, turning to smile at Nikolai.  He returned the smile, then introduced himself to Grissom, who was uncharacteristically brusque.  

"Will you excuse us, Mr. Comenescu?" he bade tersely, taking Sara by the upper arm to guide her up from the chair and to an unoccupied corner of the room.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked in a low, but heated, voice.

"I'm interviewing the employees," she answered simply.

"Did it ever occur to you that one of them might be the killer?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact, I think Mr. Comenescu _is_ Nosferatu," she rejoined.

"And you were just sitting there, having a nice, intimate conversation with a serial killer?" he asked, incredulously.

"I wasn't in any danger.  It's not like he's going to rip open my throat right here in front of everyone," she said, sweeping her arm in an arc.

"Do I have to confine you to the lab?  Is that what it's going to take to keep you alive?  If so, I'll do it, by God."

"I'm only at the lab ten or twelve hours a day, Grissom.  If Nosferatu wants to kill me, he would have plenty of opportunity when I'm _not confined to the lab.  But my safety isn't all that's at stake here.  I'm trying to catch a killer before he kills anyone else.  I can't do that locked away in a dungeon somewhere," she explained impatiently._

"But you don't have to do it alone," Grissom argued.

"I'm alone half the day, anyway.  What difference does it make?" she challenged him.

"You don't have to be alone half the day," he blurted out, feeling like he was losing what little control he may have had over the situation.

"You going to hire a babysitter?" she laughed.

"I would if I thought I could find anyone else crazy enough to take the job," he retorted sarcastically.

"Are _you_ volunteering for the job?" she asked.

"I'd hardly call is 'volunteering'," he shot back.  "Do you have anything that ties this guy to Nosferatu?" he asked, trying to judge how long of a commitment this was likely to be.

"Not a thing," she answered deftly.

"Then what makes you think it's him?" Grissom asked probingly.

"I just do," she said, turning to leave, Grissom trailing in her wake.

"We'll take my car and I'll have yours brought back in later," he said as he caught up to her, trying to regain some measure of authority.

"Whatever makes you happy, Grissom," she conceded, smiling inwardly.

Any hesitancy Grissom may have felt about his own behavior disappeared when Nikolai called out, "Can I see you later, Sara?"

Sara turned and smiled broadly – the smile that used to be reserved for him alone.  "See you later, Nikolai."  She waved coquettishly.

Grissom held her at the elbow and practically dragged her from the building.  "For God's sake, Sara!  Don't tease him!" he hissed, practically hurling her into the SUV.

"Grissom, I can't believe how you are behaving!" Sara fairly shouted at him once they were safely in the vehicle.

"You can't believe how _I'm_ behaving?  How _I'm behaving?  You're in there shamelessly flirting with a possible serial murderer, and you can't believe how _I'm_ behaving?" he bellowed._

"Why are you so pissed?  Because I was talking to a possible murderer without a chaperone?  Or because I was flirting with him?" she challenged him.

"Both," he snapped.

"Like you've never flirted with a suspect," she shot back.  "At least I didn't sleep with him," she added.

Grissom stared at her, dumbstruck, his mind emptied by panic.  He had hoped against hope that she hadn't heard about his rendezvous at Lady Heather's Domain, but he realized that he should have known better.  

"You don't have to say anything, Grissom.  That look says it all," she said bitterly, turning towards the door.  After a moment of tense silence, feeling his eyes still boring into her, she decided that she couldn't stand it any longer and bolted out of the door.  The difference between how she had felt talking with Nikolai and how she now felt with Grissom was as day and night.

Grissom was too stunned to move at first, but regained his composure enough to fly out of the SUV to chase her.  He caught up with her and grabbed her arm to stop her, just as Nikolai was leaving the blood bank.  Hurrying up to the pair, he interjected himself between the two and asked, "Is everything all right, Sara?"  He turned to look menacingly at Grissom, his bottomless black eyes sending cold shivers down Grissom's spine.

"It's OK, Nikolai," she assured him, reaching out to lay her hand warmly on his bare forearm.  Seeing that, Grissom possessively took her by the other arm to lead her back to the truck.  As she and Nikolai separated, she turned to smile and say goodbye again, allowing her hand to glide down his arm to his hand, dragging her nails lightly across his skin, sensuously.

"Au revoir, Sara," he called out.

"I'll call you," she returned.

This time, when Grissom opened the Yukon's door, she hopped in without resistance.  Grissom got in the driver's side and sighed heavily as he started the truck, feeling the same sense of impending doom that he had felt more than a year ago, when Hank would ask about Sara, before they actually started dating.

"Grissom, quick, grab a swab," she commanded excitedly.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Grab a swab.  I may have been able to get some of his epithelials under my nails."

"That was all a ploy?" Grissom asked, reaching back to drag the field kit up closer to dig out a swab.

"Duh!  Why else would I flirt with a suspect?" she asked.  "That would be unethical, not to mention un-fucking-believably stupid."  Sara hurled her statements out as an accusation, intended to hurt Grissom.  

He held her hand still and swabbed under each fingernail, then grabbed another to swab her palm, unlikely to yield any results, but possible.  When he was done, he let their hands sink to the seat, but didn't let go.  He looked down, unable to meet her eyes.

"She wasn't a suspect at the time," he began.

"I _really_ don't need to hear this," she spat out, jerking her hand away abruptly.

"Maybe I need to say it," he countered.

"Go tell someone who gives a damn," she said, twisting towards the door.

"If you don't give a damn, why are you so angry?" he asked. 

"Because it was just wrong, Grissom," she snorted derisively.

"Yes, it was," he agreed.

Sara started chuckling quietly, gradually cascading into full-body laughter.

"What's so funny?" Grissom asked in consternation.

Sara gasped for air, trying to compose herself enough to answer.  "I can't even get you to go out to _dinner_ with me after three years of flirting, and a suspect in two different murder investigations can bat her eyes at you a couple of times and you _sleep_ with her.  What crime do I have to commit to get a simple date?" she asked, bursting into laughter again.  "Would a minor misdemeanor do?"

"I don't see where that's very funny," Grissom retorted, shame-faced.

"Well, Grissom, sometimes you have to laugh, just to keep from crying," she answered, her laughter dying down, catching her breath.

"You were hardly unattached at the time," Grissom said, defending himself.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Like that mattered.  It's not like I was married.  And at least he wasn't a suspect in any crime that I know of, he wasn't a pervert, and it's irrelevant anyway.  My availability or lack thereof has no bearing on the ethicality of your choices.  I will not allow you to make me the bad guy in all this," she shot back vehemently, her mirth dissipated.  
"I've already agreed it was wrong.  There's not much I can do about it now," he said, sighing loudly.  "I don't see any point in discussing it further."

"Hey, you brought it up, not me," Sara retorted.  "But I certainly don't want any more lectures from _you_ on impulse control."

The ride back to the lab was unusual.  Normally, they both were either relaxed with each other or incredibly tense with each other.  This time the dynamic was lop-sided, with Grissom as rigid as Sara had ever seen him.  She, on the other hand, was feeling a bit more emotionally at ease now that she had finally gotten some things off her chest.  She wondered why she always dreaded confrontation and meaningful communication – it almost always made her feel better.  Nothing ever seemed to make Grissom feel better, as far as she could tell.

She hadn't really put it all together before, even though she would see glimpses of it.  She now saw it all so clearly, sitting in the SUV with him.  He told her not to be emotional over cases, then tells her it's somehow different if he does it.  He tells her to get a life when he doesn't have one.  He tells her she works too much, but when has she ever gone in when he wasn't there?  

He gets mad if she volunteers to entice the Strip Strangler, with half the FBI watching her every second, but he confronts the killer alone and unarmed, and gets injured in the process.  He's shocked to find out she had a few dates with Hank, but he's been hot after no fewer than half a dozen women since she arrived in Vegas.  He's mad that she's baiting a killer by calculated flirting, but he slept with a suspect – though Sara admits that she did turn out to be innocent, but he didn't know that at the time.

"Hypocrite," she mumbled, more to herself than to him.

"What?" he asked, sure that he misheard her.

"Nothing," she said, waving him off.

* * * * *

"Sara, if I tell you something you really, really would like, would you go out with me?" Greg asked sweetly.

"There's always that outside chance, Greg.  It's just that I can think of so few things that you could possibly tell me that would make me lose all rational thought like that," she answered, her smile equally saccharine.

"Greg, just tell us what the results are!" Grissom barked, tiring of Greg's incessant flirting with Sara.  He had enough of that for one day, and he was sure that the headache he was nurturing would quite possibly kill him.

"Match," he replied quickly, almost physically shrinking from what seemed to be an already irate, murderous Grissom.

"I knew it!" Sara shouted, snatching the report from Greg's hand and bursting out of the lab.

Grissom caught up with her in the layout room, busy on the computer.  "What are you looking for now?" he asked, feeling like she must have felt a hundred times before:  about a half a step behind and not getting any help in catching up.

"I'm researching Nosferatu," she answered simply, as though any fool would have instinctively known the answer.

"I thought there wasn't anything on him in the databases," Grissom recalled.

"Not the serial killer Nosferatu, but Nosferatu as a species," she explained impatiently.

"Sara, there's no such thing as the Undead," Grissom said, surprised that she would believe there was.

"We may believe that there's no such thing, but Nikolai believes in them.  He believes he is one.  To get ahead of the killer, you have to know the killer's motivations.  If he thinks he's a vampire, then I have to learn all I can about them."

She typed in various key words on the Google search page.  43,600 hits on 'vampirism.'  3,830,000 hits on 'vampire.'  177,000 hits on 'Nosferatu.'  567,000 hits on 'Undead.'  Putting them all in together on one search and excluding words like movie, theater, play, game, and of course Buffy, she ended up with 362,000 hits.

"My God, I had no idea there would be that much out there on vampires," Grissom marveled.

"The vampire legend exists in most cultures around the world, in one form or another," she said pedantically, the student becoming the teacher.  "Even today, there's an entire subculture of gothic types who think they're vampires, or at least wish they were."

Grissom stood and watched as she deftly clicked onto each site, scanning it briefly, and then either backing out or clicking the print icon.  He was always amazed at her powers of concentration and determination.  He knew that she would sit here for hours, maybe days, until she had what she wanted.  It sometimes frustrated him, but he had to admit that he admired her for it.

Feeling a little useless and ill-at-ease, Grissom pulled up a chair and watched for a moment, his mind still reeling from the events of the day, his headache apparently settling in for the duration.

"Sara, when we were driving back, did you say what I think you said?" he asked gingerly, kneading his temples.

"Depends on what you think I said," she snapped back, not missing a keystroke.

"I think you called me a hypocrite," he posited.

"Then, yeah, I said what you think I said," she answered evenly, her eyes never leaving the computer screen.

"May I ask what you base that evaluation on?" he asked stiffly.

"The evidence," she retorted. 

"What evidence?" he pressed.

"Think about it.  Maybe you'll figure it out.  I'm kind of busy right now.  Can we have this personal discussion some other time?" she asked testily.

"Okay," he answered, getting up from the chair.  He wasn't wanted there, and he wasn't needed there.  He had never felt that way with Sara before, even when he was avoiding her.  But he had made her feel that way many times, and he was getting a taste of her perspective.  He didn't like it one bit.

"Are you going to home anytime today?  You've been working almost 16 hours."  

"I doubt it," she answered, succinctly.

"You can use the couch in my office for a nap, if you get tired," he offered gamely.

"Okay," she acknowledged.

"Will you let me know if you are going to leave the lab?" he inquired cautiously.

"You'll be the first person I'll tell," she answered.

"Is that a 'yes'?" he asked, aware that she might not tell anyone, so being the first of none was no distinction.

"Yes, yes, yes!  All right?" she snapped at him.

"That's getting to be about enough, Sara," Grissom warned.  "Whether you like me or not, whether you are angry with me or not, I am still your supervisor.  I expect you to respect my authority, even if you don't respect me.  Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir, Dr. Grissom," she answered evenly, careful her intonation was neither overly sarcastic or obviously deferential.

He left, his frustration with her mounting, and his headache pounding.  He had also been at the lab for 16 hours, and he was exhausted.  If Sara didn't want to use the couch, he wasn't going to let it go to waste.  Sitting up briefly, Grissom called the receptionist at the front desk, "Page me immediately if CSI Sidle leaves the lab."  Now he could allow himself to get some rest.

* * * * *

He had been sleeping for about two hours when an insistent knock roused him.  He stumbled towards the door, rubbing his eyes as he reached to open it.

"Dr. Grissom, you told me to let you know if I leave the lab.  I am leaving the lab," Sara stated, then turned on her heel to leave.

Grissom was still trying to clear away the mental cobwebs, but he finally processed what she said.  "Where are you going?" he asked.

"I am clocking out of work.  What I do and where I go after that are nobody's business, not even yours," she answered.  "I will be back at the lab by start of shift at 11:00."

She took his silence to indicate assent and she disappeared from his door like a night mist in the first rays of dawn.

Sara slammed her hand into the glass doors that led to the outside world, stepping out into the fading light of early evening.  She stopped and took a deep breath, reminding herself that she was free from the oppressive atmosphere that had threatened to suffocate her.

She was on her own time now, and she could damn well do what she pleased.  Gil Grissom can require her to allow him to supervise her work life, but he didn't supervise any of the rest of it.  She had given him ample opportunity over these past few years to be part of her non-work life, and he consistently rebuffed her.  As far as she was concerned, he had no rights whatsoever after she logged out.

"Hello, Sara," the dulcet voice spoke from behind her.

She turned to see who was greeting her, and saw Nikolai sitting on a bench lined up against the building.  He immediately rose and bowed graciously.

"Nikolai!  How nice to see you again," she said.  "What brings you here?" she asked.

"I came to see if you would do me the honor of having some coffee or a drink with me," he replied, his voice confident and smooth as glass.

"I only have a few hours until I have to be back to work, and I haven't slept in two days," she explained.  "Coffee would keep me up and a drink would put be to sleep.  Could I beg off until tomorrow?" she asked.

"Certainly.  Tomorrow would be lovely," he replied.  "May I walk you to your car?"

"Of course," she said, smiling and taking the crook of his arm as he led her down the walkway towards the parking lot.

"So, you normally work nights?" Nikolai asked.

"Yes."

"Why are you just now leaving, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"I am working on a difficult case.  Once you get started, it's hard to pull away," she answered.

"Ah," he intoned.  "You are very dedicated.  A strong, independent woman, it would seem."

"Some would say a headstrong and stubborn woman!" she laughed.

"Unappreciative swine!" he snorted in jest.

"This is my car," she said, putting her key in the lock.

"Allow me," he said, putting his hand over hers, turning the key and opening the door.  He took her hand and lowered her into the seat, then handed her the keys.  "Until tomorrow then.  What time do you get off work?"

"Seven in the morning," she answered, grimacing.  "That is, if nothing big happens tonight."

"I will meet you in your parking lot at seven, then, for morning coffee," he said, taking up her hand and kissing the back.  

He stepped back and nodded his goodbyes as she started the car and drove away.  

As she left the lot, her cell phone rang, and she fumbled to open it while driving.  "Sidle," she said with a tinge of exasperation.

"More DNA samples?" Grissom queried, without so much as a hello.

"Spying on me now?" she asked, annoyed.

"You were standing in the middle of the parking lot for all of Las Vegas to see," he answered.

"Did you call for a reason?" she asked testily.

"Yes.  I had a reason.  I would think the reason is obvious, but evidently I'm wrong."

"Grissom, I'm tired and I just want to go home and go to bed for a couple of hours.  I don't have the mental energy for your word games.  If you have something to say, say it plainly," she said, trying in vain to control her frustration with him.

"OK.  I will.  I don't want you to get yourself killed.  Is that plain enough?"

"Yes, I think even I can understand that.  Don't get killed.  Got it.  Is that all?" she asked.

"Not really, but the rest is probably moot.  Have a good rest," he said, hanging up.

She snapped the phone shut and cursed, spitting out a diatribe to the Vegas traffic.  "He doesn't want me, but doesn't want anyone else to want me.  He won't take me out, but doesn't want me to go out with anyone else.  What the hell does he want from me?"

* * * * *

Grissom was always amazed that Sara was able to function on as little food and sleep as she got.  She didn't look any different from any other day.  He had a two-hour nap the previous afternoon, then slept fitfully for another three hours that evening.  Five poor hours of sleep had done nothing for his outlook.

"Sara, may I see you a moment?" he asked as she sat with the others in the break room, waiting for him to appear with assignments.

"Right now?" she asked, looking around.

"Yes, please," he said, turning back towards his office.

When she followed him through the door, he closed it and asked her to be seated.  She sat across from him, prepared for a battle.

"You've been complaining that we never work together anymore.  We were teamed on this case, and everything was going well.  Now you are going off on your own with the case, and you're consistently angry with me it seems.  Would you mind telling me what's really wrong?"

"Let me ask you this.  Do you feel respected?" she posed to him.

"No, I don't," he answered.

"Walk a mile in my shoes," she retorted.

"Is this all some sort of payback?  That hardly seems your style."

"No, I certainly didn't plan it that way.  Would it make you feel better if I sent you a plant?" she asked facetiously.

"Sara, can we jump to the present for a moment?  Why are you mad at me _now_?"

"Because you are smothering me.  You won't let me out of your sight while I'm here.  You spied on me.  You threatened to babysit me.  I'm a grown woman and a law enforcement official.  You are treating me like a child.  It's disrespectful.  Again."  Her anger only allowed short, staccato bursts of speech in between gulps of air.

"Put that way, I can see why you would think that.  Could there be another reason for my actions?" he asked.

"You tell me," she challenged.

"Perhaps I just don't want you to get hurt.  I've told you that all along.  I don't understand why you can't see that."

"I can take care of myself," she countered.

"Is it so awful for someone else to want to take care of you?" he asked softly.

"So you want to protect me?" she asked incredulously.  "Every day that I come in here, I die a little more.  Protect me from that!"

"It can be a depressing job," he agreed.

"It's not the job, Grissom.  It's you."

"Oh," he said, with a surprised huff.

"The mere fact that I had to tell you that is a large part of why I'm angry."  

"I don't know what to do about that," he admitted, not realizing how similar his statement was to his earlier rebuff of her dinner invitation.

"I do," she said, abruptly standing up to leave.  Her answer made Grissom realize what he had said.

He searched her defiant face and knew that this "I do" was worlds away from the last time he heard her say it.  This time, it had nothing to do with caring about him.

"I take it he doesn't make you feel that way," Grissom sighed.

"He, who?" she challenged him.

"Nosferatu."

"If you are referring to Nikolai, then, no, he doesn't make me feel that way.  _He's_ nice to me.  _He_ respects me.  _He_ seems to believe I'm attractive and special."

"He's right.  But he's also a serial killer."

"He is innocent until proven guilty," she expelled, taking another tentative step towards the door.

"So, what are you going to do?" Grissom asked, resignation in his voice.

"Have coffee with him in the morning, then have him arrested for murder," she said, flinging the door open and bolting from his office.  She couldn't let him see was how much this hurt.  The last man to be nice to her cheated on her, betrayed her.  She was going to have to betray Nikolai.  She wasn't sure what to say to him.  How would she be able to sit with him, calmly taking in his compliments, then have him arrested?  She didn't know him all that well, but she was finding it impossible to comprehend how Nikolai could be Nosferatu.  But that didn't mean she doubted it.

She was alternating between racking sobs of sadness and angry kicks at locker doors when he slid in through the door.  

"I know you don't want to hear this, but I do know what you are feeling.  I honestly do," Grissom said.

"He's the one nice thing that's happened to me in so long ..." she sobbed, flopping herself down on the bench, burying her face in her hands.  "And I'm going to betray him," she added guiltily.

"I know," Grissom said, sitting next to her.  "I felt the same way."  Grissom's arm slid up around her shoulders to pull her next to him in a hug.  She stiffened and resisted at first, but relented, needing the comfort.

"How did you do it?" she asked in a mousy voice.

"We were having tea when I realized that she had the means and the opportunity, though I couldn't fathom the motive.  I called Brass to get a warrant and he took her in for questioning," he recited mechanically, separating himself from what he had felt at the time.

"You called right in front of her?" Sara asked.

"Yes.  I didn't want to go behind her back.  I had to be honest about it," he said.

"Lucky for you she turned out to be innocent.  I don't think that will happen for me."

"Her being innocent didn't change the fact that she felt I betrayed her.  She didn't accept my apology," he sighed.

"I'm sorry," Sara said, as sincerely as she could, considering the pain the subject caused.

"I'm sorry for how it happened, but it was for the best.  It would never have worked out," he said, shrugging.

"Why not?" Sara asked.  "From what I've heard, she doesn't exactly seem your type, but if you loved her, that's all that matters," Sara choked out.

"I didn't love her.  I loved how she treated me.  There's a difference," he explained.

"Why can't we find decent, law-abiding people who will treat us that way?  What's wrong with us, Grissom?" she pleaded with him.

"God, Sara, I wish I knew how to answer that.  We live on the fringe of society, steeping ourselves in all that's wrong with it.  We rarely see the light of day.  It's like _we_ are the Undead.  Alive, but not living.  Who else but other fringe-dwellers would want us?" he asked.

She leaned into his shoulder, considering his words.

"You've come closest, with Hank.  His job is a little out of the ordinary as well, but look at what the rest of us have been involved with.  Catherine had Eddie, and we all know what a sterling character he was.  Nick fell for a prostitute, Warrick for a junkie.  Heather was a dominatrix.  We don't mix well with normal people, so I guess that limits our choices."

"That begs the question, why can't we choose someone we work with?  Someone who understands, who's on the same side?"

"It's against the rules," he answered simply.

"Fuck the rules," she spat out, flying up from the bench.  "So it's better for us to hook up with low-lifes or criminals?  Isn't that breaking the rules, too?  Do the rules specify that we have to be lonely and miserable?"

"The rules exist for a reason," he tried to explain, but knowing that none of the reasons would quell her anger.

"Yeah, what a tragedy it would be to actually care about someone you work with.  I can see why there would be a rule against that."

"It could cloud your judgment.  It could lead to inequities.  It could make an already stressful job more so," he ticked off.  

"And that's different from how it already is?"

"Not really," he exhaled, seeing her point.  "The rules don't forbid you to date other CSIs, Sara.  They only forbid fraternization between management and nonmanagement."

"All I wanted was to go to dinner," she said quietly, shaking her head.

"That's not all you wanted, and you know it.  It's not all I wanted, either," he admitted.

She looked at him dumbstruck.  He always seemed to do this to her – drive her to the edge, then yank her back.

"I can do one thing for you, though," Grissom said.  "I can take you off this case.  You won't have to have him arrested;  I will."

"I would still have to testify against him.  I gathered the evidence.  We identified him through the DNA I stole from him."

"I'll find another way to identify him," Grissom said hopefully.  "All you would have to testify to is chain of custody on the evidence from the crime scenes.  That's a technicality, not an accusation.  You don't have to hurt him," Grissom added, more empathetic than she imagined he could be.

"It still doesn't feel right," she breathed out.

"There is no right, in this situation, Sara.  This is the least wrong," he nodded.

They stood and he pulled her into a platonic hug, holding her there, waiting for her to feel ready to face the horrors of the night.  The door creaked open and Catherine stepped in, shutting it quickly to prevent anyone else from seeing.  Grissom turned his head and his eyes let Catherine know that this was only about being a friend, at least at this moment.  

Catherine walked up to the pair and held out her hand for the assignments, taking them and smiling warmly at him.  She left as quietly as she had arrived.

Handing out the slips in the break room, she warned the guys, "Do _not_ go into the locker room, under any circumstances."

"Why not?" Nick asked.

"Grissom and Sara are ... talking," she covered.

"Not fighting?" Warrick asked, surprised.

"Not staring each other down in stone-cold silence?" Nick added.

"Nope.  And we do _not want to hose this up.  I don't know about you guys, but their whatever-it-is was starting to really beat me down.  I'd pay money for them to be able to patch things up."_

"True dat," Nick said, punching his fist against Warrick's.

* * * * *

"Would you like something to drink?" Grissom asked amiably.

"No, thank you," Nikolai answered politely, sitting at the desk in the interrogation room.  Brass was sitting to his right, quietly, to this point.  Grissom sat across from Nikolai, a file splayed out in front of him.

"Mr. Comenescu, you are not technically under arrest, but you still have the right to have an attorney present.  You were read your rights, correct?" Brass asked, for the record.

"Yes, I was told my rights."

"Do you understand your rights?" Brass asked.

"Yes.  I do.  I do not require an attorney.  However, do I still get to place a phone call?"

"Yes.  You are not under arrest," Brass answered.  "Do you want to make a call now?"

"Not at the moment.  Perhaps later," he said evenly, looking at his watch.  It was five o'clock in the morning.

"Mr. Comenescu, we are investigating the deaths of three women, who were attacked and exsanguinated by someone calling himself 'Nosferatu'," Grissom began.

Nikolai nodded and listened intently, his black eyes fixed on Grissom, but with none of the malice Grissom had seen in them the day at the blood bank.

"You are familiar with the term 'Nosferatu'?" Grissom asked.

"Of course.  There are legends of the Undead all over the world, but I am most familiar with the Eastern European version," he answered.

"Mr. Comenescu, are you Nosferatu?" Grissom asked abruptly, but not harshly.

"Do you mean the suspect Nosferatu, or do you mean the mythical creature?" Nikolai asked.

"Both.  Either," Brass answered, rocking his hand back and forth.

Nikolai did not speak, but he wasn't being difficult.  He knew that he could never make them understand.

"Humans cannot survive on blood, Mr. Comenescu.  It is impossible.  We don't have the enzymes to properly digest it or draw the nutrients out of it.  Even if it were to be administered intravenously, it would not sustain us," Grissom exposited.

"That is true of humans.  It is not true of Nosferatu," Nikolai answered.  "Perhaps they have different enzymes," Nikolai posited.  "I can see that you are skeptical.  You think that Nosferatu are supernatural beings, and therefore can't exist.  The legend and the reality are very different from each other."

"How so?" Brass asked.

"Nosferatu are not shape-shifters.  They are not killed by sunlight, holy water, garlic or anything like that.  They do not have fangs.  They are not supernatural, only different," he explained.

"In the absence of empirical evidence, I find it difficult to believe in vampires," Grissom stated.

"It is of no matter, Dr. Grissom.  The end result would be the same, regardless of whether I am a vampire or a homicidal maniac.  Your belief or lack thereof does not change anything.  But consider this.  How many animals exist on earth that are comprised of only one species?" Nikolai asked Grissom.

"Only one that I know of – humans," Grissom answered.

"What are the chances that evolution would create a multitude of species of other animals, but only one human species?"

"Statistically, it's difficult to justify only one human species," Grissom agreed.  "Nonetheless, it is all that we have catalogued."

"Could it be because when others are found, they are killed before they can be identified?" Nikolai suggested.

"Mr. Comenescu, are you Nosferatu?" Brass asked again, feeling the esoteric conversation was getting them nowhere.

"May I have that phone call now?" he asked.

"Certainly," Brass said.  "You can use the phone on the desk."

"Dr. Grissom, would you please dial the number.  I don't know it," Nikolai beseeched, hoping Grissom would know who he wanted to speak with.  

Brass looked questioningly at Grissom, who grabbed the phone and began punching in numbers.  When she answered, Grissom said, "Mr. Comenescu wants to talk to you.  Is that OK?"

"How is he?" Sara asked.

"Holding up well.  I think it will be OK," Grissom said.

Grissom handed the phone to Nikolai, who held it until Grissom and Brass excused themselves.  He may have known that they would still be watching and listening, but he still had the sense of privacy.

"Sara?  It's Nikolai."

"Hello, Nikolai," she said hesitantly.

"It's wonderful to hear your voice.  Unfortunately, it would appear that I will be unable to make our date this morning," he said, disappointment carrying through his words.

Brass looked over at Grissom, who kept his face impassively forward to the glass.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said.

"I suppose you know why," he said.  "I don't blame you.  I just wanted to make sure you knew that.  I could never blame you.  It's not your fault that I am what I am, that I do what I have to do, that they do what they have to do."

"I don't know how to help, Nikolai," Sara said sadly.

"There was nothing you could do.  I should have left, moved on somewhere else for a while, like we usually do.  But something held me here."  He paused for a moment, continuing, "You know that I would never have hurt you, don't you?"

"I know that.  I've known that all along," she answered, feeling the words hitch in her throat.

"We didn't have enough time to get to know one another very well, but I think I could easily have fallen in love with you.  Maybe one day you could have fallen in love with me," he said, emboldened by knowing he'd never have another chance to say it.

"We will never know," Sara said.  It was another in a long line of opportunities that somehow came and went without ever making the decision.  Someone finally valued her and wasn't afraid to show it, and it figured that she would never have the chance to see how that might change her life.  It wasn't fair to her and it wasn't fair to him, and the inequity of life brought her to tears.

"Don't cry, Sara.  It's best this way.  I would have to leave or die sooner or later.  I couldn't ask you to live that way.  I will miss getting to know you, Sara," he said.  "You are unlike any woman I've ever known, and I've lived all over the world."

"I will miss getting to know you, too, Nikolai.  Take care," she said, hanging up the phone, unable to bear the conflicting feelings any longer.  She had never met him as Nosferatu, and it seemed that Nikolai didn't deserve his fate, the fate that she brought on him in order to bring Nosferatu to justice.

Nikolai slowly replaced the phone, a wistful smile still on his face as Brass and Grissom returned.

"Mr. Comenescu, may I take a DNA sample?" Grissom requested.

"Will it help keep Sara out of all of this?" Nikolai asked.  "I do not want her involved in what is going to happen, for her own good."

"Yes, it will," Grissom answered, nodding.

"Would not a full confession be better?" he asked, turning to Brass.

"Yes.  If you confess and plead guilty at the arraignment, there will be no trial," Brass answered.  The judge will sentence you, but he will require the evidence and your statement so that he will feel confident in his ruling.  He may require a forensic psychologist to examine you," Brass warned.

"Let's get that all done in advance," Nikolai affirmed.  "You may take your DNA sample, Dr. Grissom.  I will make my confession and you can arrange for me to see a forensic psychologist.  I want this over as soon as possible.  You don't know what it's like to be seen as evil merely because you are different.  I'm grateful that we're not really immortal.  At this point, I welcome an end to it all," he said with resignation, but not gloomily.  It was as if a burden had been lifted.

After Nikolai confessed in great enough detail to suspend any doubt as to his guilt, Brass formally arrested him on three counts of murder in the first degree, handcuffing him as he stood facing Grissom.

Grissom eyed Nikolai, a question formulating on his tongue.  "Mr. Comenescu, why did you write 'Nosferatu' at the first scene?  Did you want us to catch you?  Was it a statement that vampires exist?  What was the point?"

Nikolai smiled.  "Both, I suppose.  I never asked to be the way I am.  I wanted people to know why these innocent people had to die.  Also, I wanted to warn them.  Whether I am as I say I am, or whether I am a maniacal serial killer, either way I wanted to give the prey fair warning."

"May I ask another question?" Grissom said.

"Certainly."

"You worked at a blood bank.  Why did you need to kill anyone?"

"Two reasons.  First of all, one can only steal so much blood before it's noticed.  I did use all that I could, or you would have likely had many more victims.  Second, live blood is better than dead blood and more nutritious, like the difference between fresh food and canned food, I suppose."  Nikolai managed to make the gruesome conversation sound as innocuous as a cooking show on cable.

"You drank what you could at the scene and stored the rest," Grissom stated more than asked.

"Yes, all that I could gather in a reasonable amount of time.  You will find the remainder in the refrigerator in my apartment.  You may want that as evidence," he suggested.

Grissom nodded, all of the loose ends that had plagued him were tied up.  

"I would not have hurt her," Nikolai assured Grissom.  "I would sooner die," he swore solemnly.

Grissom carefully considered the man standing in front of him.  Nikolai had opened himself up to Sara, forfeiting his life in the process.  Still, he didn't seem to regret it.  Grissom looked down in shame that he had allowed his fears of much less dire consequences to keep him from having any level of relationship with her.

Nikolai asked Brass if he could have a moment alone with Grissom, assuring him that Grissom would be safe with him handcuffed.  Brass looked at Grissom, then nodded his consent, and left the room.

"Sara and you have a connection.  I could see it, feel it.  Are you in love?" Nikolai asked plainly.

"I don't know how she feels," Grissom evaded.

"How do _you_ feel?" Nikolai pressed.

"I care about her," Grissom said.

"Caring is not loving.  Do you love her?" he pushed.

"Yes, I do," he admitted.

"Would _you_ hurt her?" Nikolai asked.

"I already have, several times," Grissom sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Why would you hurt her, if you love her?" Nikolai asked, amazed.

"I don't know.  I was confused, afraid.  It all seemed like such a gamble."

Nikolai grinned at Grissom.  "She is worth it, no?  Just to see that smile."

"She is worth it, yes, just to see that smile," Grissom answered.

Brass knocked on the door and entered with an officer, ready to escort Nikolai to booking.  

"You'll pardon me for not shaking your hand," Nikolai said, jingling the cuffs behind his back.  

The two men nodded their regards, knowing that they had an uncommon bond through loving Sara.

* * * * *

"How are you doing?" Sara asked over the telephone handset.  It was distracting to see him through plexiglass and talk to him over the phone, even though they were less than three feet apart.

"As well as can be expected," Nikolai told her.

"They say you are on a hunger strike," she said, concerned.

Nikolai laughed heartily, and said, "They don't serve what I eat in the cafeteria, Sara."

"How long can you go without eating?" she asked, still unsure of how much she believed.

"How long can _you_ go without eating?" he asked back.

"Gandhi fasted a month.  Jesus fasted forty days.  I doubt I'd make it that long," she replied.  

"Nor will I," he said.  "I will start to get really hungry in a few days.  But unlike you, the hunger will not pass;  it will intensify until I feed."

"I'm so sorry, Nikolai," she said, putting her hand to the glass.  

"It's not your fault, Sara," he said.  "By the way, you look a little tired.  Lovely, but tired.  You should rest more."

"Yeah, that's what my boss always tells me," she said, nodding.  "The 'rest more' part, not the 'lovely' part," she clarified.

"That's because he worries about you," Nikolai told her.

"He has no reason to worry about me," she retorted.

"He has a very good reason to worry about you.  He loves you," Nikolai stated.

"Don't be ridiculous, Nikolai!" she exclaimed.

"He told me so, the day I was arrested.  I am glad that you have someone who loves you.  I won't have to worry about you," he explained.

"I'm sure you misunderstood.  He is very easy to misunderstand," she suggested.

"I asked if he loves you.  He said 'yes, I do'.  That is not very hard to understand," Nikolai rejoined, his palms held up.  

Sara sat speechless.  She was sitting in front of a man who treated her like a princess, but was going to be behind bars for the rest of his life – however long that may be.  He was telling her that another man loves her, a man she had loved for years, a man who has repeatedly pushed her away, a man she had given up on.

"Do you love him?" Nikolai asked softly, a smile softening his ebony eyes.

"I thought I did.  I don't know anymore," she answered honestly.

"He told me that he has hurt you several times.  Is that why you don't know?" he pressed gently.

"He told you that?" she asked, surprised.

"Yes.  He seemed contrite," Nikolai allowed.

She felt the confusion build in her mind, and thoughts of him came to her unbidden.  She fought to keep the memories at bay – they only brought pain and disappointment.  Nikolai watched as she straightened in her chair, her eyes sealing themselves off, her jaw setting in determination.  

"I don't know why he said all that crap to you.  He's certainly never said anything remotely like that to me.  A few months ago, I asked him out for dinner.  He turned me down flat.  This is the first time he's allowed me to work on a case with him in about six months.  We either don't speak to each other, or we argue.  That doesn't sound like love to me," she said harshly.

"I cannot speak to the past, Sara.  Only the present.  He loves you.  I think you love him, or you would not feel such pain.  I want you to be happy.  Will you try to do that?  If for no other reason, then as a favor to me?" he asked.  

"I can't promise that, Nikolai, but I will try.  Again," she sighed.

"Good-bye, Sara.  I hope you have a long and wonderful life, filled with love and many glorious adventures," he said, putting his hand to the glass again.

She got up and turned away quickly, not wanting to burden him with the tears her guilt brought her.  Even after she had provided the evidence to have him arrested, he was still kind to her.  She still could not understand how he could be the killer, even though she accepted that he was.  Justice for the victims was served;  there would be no way to achieve justice for Nikolai – he was either mad or a victim of genetics.

* * * * *

Sara walked out into the harsh Nevada sun that was lying in wait outside of the building housing the Clark County Jail.  She quickly swiped at her cheeks and sniffed, steeling herself to go back to reality.  

"Are you okay, Sara?" she heard from slightly behind her.  She turned to see Grissom leaned up against the brick front of the building.

"I'm fine.  What are you doing here?" she asked.

Grissom shrugged.  "I thought you might want some company.  But if you don't, that's okay, too," he offered, afraid she would think that he was spying on her again.

"I don't know what I want, Grissom," she said glumly.

"I'll drive you home," he suggested.

"Home.  To an empty house," she huffed.

"I'll stay with you, if you like," he offered.

"You don't need to babysit me, Grissom.  But thanks anyway for the offer," she said, trying to work up a faint smile.

"That's not what I meant," he corrected quickly.  "I meant that I would keep you company, so you won't be so lonely."

"That's thoughtful, but what happens when you leave?  Nothing will have changed," she countered.

"Maybe everything will have changed," he said, searching her eyes.

"Everything can't change.  There are rules, remember?" she asked, pain and resignation vying for control over her voice.

"Fuck the rules," Grissom spat out, taking her hand in his, pulling her into his arms.  


End file.
